I must be crazy—
that’s what I tell myself
when my thoughts won’t sit still,
when my mind starts building storms
out of whispers.
When I read too much
into silence,
when I feel everything
ten times deeper
than it probably is.
I must be crazy
for holding onto things
other people let go of easily,
for replaying moments
like they might change
if I just think about them differently.
For caring
when it would be easier
not to.
For loving
like there’s no halfway
in me.
But maybe it isn’t madness.
Maybe it’s just
what happens
when a heart stays open
in a world
that keeps asking it
to close.
Maybe it’s the weight
of feeling too much
in places
that reward feeling nothing.
Maybe it’s being aware
of everything—
every shift,
every tone,
every almost.
And yeah,
it’s exhausting.
But I’m starting to wonder
if “crazy”
is just the name
people give
to anything
they don’t understand
about someone
who feels deeply
and refuses
to go numb.
Through the Fog 